


The Isle of Truth

by eag



Series: Voyage of the Muntjac [1]
Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Truth, Eliot really misses Quentin, Fillory, Gen, High King and Greatest Swordsman in all of Fillory with benefits, M/M, Magic, Other, Quests, Sex, Too Many Truths and Some Lies, Truthwater, Voyage of the Muntjac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was an island where no one could tell a lie. Goodness that was awkward for a while. We aired a lot of dirty laundry there, I can tell you.”  Eliot, <i>The Magician King</i></p><p>Eliot picks up where Quentin left off, changing both the nature of the quest, the others involved, and himself.</p><p>Part of a series, but can be read by itself without missing very much, if so inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A week out from the island of After, Eliot woke from his afternoon nap to the sound of a ringing bell. Quickly, he sat up; it was the first land they had seen since setting out from After, where he and his crew had made a thorough search and inventory of the chapel where Quentin and Julia had last been seen.

He frowned, willing those thoughts away as he sat up and yawned. Life aboard the ship was generally rather dull, and he had been taking languid, extremely civilized siestas during the the late afternoon, at first because of the sweltering heat, and now because he grew tired of being whipped around by the cold arctic winds. In some ways, it was better that he stayed in his little room; it seemed that whenever he was out of his quarters, the crew nearly tripped over themselves trying to make sure he was satisfied with their work, and he fended questions from Admiral Lacker about the direction of their journey until he retreated rather than snap at them. He wondered if Quentin had the same kind of problems.

“Heavy lies the head...” He yawned and got up, patting the down comforter. He had a chance to put better bedding on it, nice stuff like that Fillorian equivalent of 8000 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets that he had back on his bed in the castle, but instead, out of a sense of perhaps loyalty or something embarrassingly sentimental, he left the bedding as it was, Quentin's. Though he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, it was nice to sleep on a pillow that smelled like Quentin's hair, even though the scent was already almost faded to nothing.

Eliot dressed carefully and warmly, checked himself in the mirror, and steeled himself before heading to the deck. 

It was almost not entirely gray and overcast, so that was something of an improvement over the last few heavily rainy days. As Eliot strode on deck, surveying all that he saw, his kingdom away from kingdom, he couldn't help being disappointed. Despite the ship's new and shiny fittings, despite the fact that he had it outfitted a damn sight better than Quentin, it was not Whitespire. Eliot missed his castle, his bed, his baths, his comprehensive whiskey service, his towel boys, getting deliciously drunk, and hell, he was even starting to miss Janet. 

And of course, he missed Quentin. Maybe even crazy goth queen Julia.

“Damned kids getting mixed up in who knows what...” he muttered to himself. Bingle, who had just walked over, gave him an odd look. 

“Your Majesty?” 

“It's nothing. I was just talking to myself.”

Bingle bowed low. “I shall accompany you when we reach land, Your Majesty.” As if that was something new; whenever they were off the ship and often when he was still on the ship, he couldn't go three feet without being tailed by the swordsman, who always kept him in sight. While Eliot appreciated Bingle's formality and professionalism, it was like having the world's most sociopathic babysitter, ready to skewer anything or anyone that got too close, either verbally or literally. Which happened once or twice already. 

“Thank you, Bingle.” Eliot couldn't quite keep the edge of sarcasm out of his voice as climbed up to the stern. Admiral Lacker was at the helm, and Benedict was beside him with the map book and some of his cartography gear.

“Benedict, what island is this?” 

“I dunno.” A thoroughly unpleasant and sullen answer. Eliot had never really gotten along with Benedict and didn't understand exactly why Quentin had insisted on taking the snotty adolescent along. Benedict seemed to resent his presence, as if Eliot being here meant that some sacred oaths to Quentin had been violated. Since Eliot came aboard, it seemed that Benedict would do anything to avoid eye contact or directly talking to him. But Eliot sure didn't miss the exchange between Bingle and Benedict, a sharp look of reproach from the former to the latter. “I mean, uh, Your Majesty, I'm not certain...we're still off-charts.” Benedict stared at the map, as if it were a charm that could repel High Kings. 

“Ah. Well, maybe we'll put it on the map.” Eliot realized that was a pretty dumb thing to say, so he headed back to the forecastle, Bingle in tow. He wondered if he should have followed his first instinct back when the ship was in harbor, to leave them both behind in Fillory. But no, this is what Quentin wanted, and damned if he was going to let Quentin down. He would just have to learn how to deal.

 

Less than an hour later, Eliot was walking along a pier in a niche of a deep natural harbor where the _Muntjac_ had been moored, an incongruously civilized touch on an otherwise seemingly deserted island. The wind whipped his hair about his head and made his cloak flap about his knees. Between the weathered wooden slats of the pier, he could see the cold dark water sloshing ominously below. Bingle kept pace at his side, seemingly untouched by wind or weather, not even wearing a coat over his usual clothes, his mournful face alert.

Before the pier ended, there was a plaque. Not really much of a plaque, Eliot thought, more like a piece of wood that had been put up with some visitor information plastered onto it. But the information had long weathered off, and was replaced by a crude carving of letters gouged in deep.

BEWARE TRAVELER. Except spelled worse and with malformed letters, but Eliot got the gist of it.

Eliot gave orders, briskly and efficiently, putting Admiral Lacker in charge of supervising repairs, and breaking the remaining men into smaller groups to gather water and replenish their stocks of food and other vital supplies. Surly Benedict was given orders to stay aboard and keep an eye out for trouble. Once Eliot was done with business, he decided that the island warranted a look.

Eliot stepped off the pier onto the beautiful white sand of the beach, incongruously tropical in appearance despite the tall pine trees beyond. As he did he stumbled, unused to the still ground after a week at sea.

“Careful, Your Majesty.” Bingle's strong, muscled arm caught him around the waist and steadied him. Not that Eliot had really noticed Bingle much before, since he was usually busy trying to avoid him, but now that they were just about nose-to-nose, Eliot did. Bingle had dark eyes and a hawk-like nose set in a narrow, olive-colored face. His eyes, though hooded with a sense of vague disinterest, were dark and alert, clever. He was handsome, only it was as though it was purely incidental and utterly unimportant, a minor detail that could easily be overlooked. “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, I'm more than all right. I'm _very_ all right, if you know what I mean.” And then Eliot blinked, wondering what prompted him to say that and in that particular tone of voice.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean,” Bingle said, and he looked confused at himself, which was an unusual look on a man so capable.

“What I mean is that I'd really like to see what you look like under all your clothes-” And Eliot clapped his hand over his mouth, stifling the rest of the words into muffled noise.

Bingle shut his mouth before he could say anything, and closed his eyes briefly, his right hand wandering to his sword. Eliot freaked out for a fraction of a second, wondering if homophobia was a thing among mercenary guild swordsmen and whether loyalty to the king would matter in that situation, but then he realized Bingle was gripping the hilt for comfort, like a kid with a security blanket.

“So, Bingle...” Eliot looked away. “As much as I would rather have a drink, and believe me, I would so much rather have one, I'll have to settle for seeing this miserable island. Maybe blast a few rabbits for fun,” Eliot winced as he said that, because that was both exactly what he wanted to do, and exactly not what he meant to say.

“I could kill something,” Bingle admitted, the same way someone might suggest that they had an interest in a cocktail or a slice of pizza, and then he looked away.

Somehow Eliot managed not to say anything else as they walked off the beach into the thinly populated woods. The wind died down as they went inland, but the air seemed to dampen and grow colder. The trees were large and tall, but there was little in the way of underbrush. Eliot couldn't see anything that seemed particularly threatening.

Eliot glanced over at Bingle, who was breathing strangely, long deep sucking breaths that went through his entire body. It was odd; they were walking sedately, and Bingle was in much better shape than Eliot could ever hope to be.

“You okay, Bingle?”

“Not really,” Bingle admitted, though there was a faint look of horror in his eyes as those words came out. “I'm actually freezing.”

“Don't you have a coat or a cloak or something?”

“I only have one change of clothes, and they're nearly identical to these.” Bingle said, “And my swords. And that castle in Fillory I'll never see, so I would not count that.”

“Oh, poor Bingle...that's incredibly pathetic.” They both stood there for a moment, wondering what had just happened that made them reveal such thoughts to each other.

“One moment, Bingle.” Eliot gave his shoulders a little shake to loosen them, and began casting his favorite reveal spell, letting his fingers do the magic as he recited the Old Aramaic. Bingle watched appreciatively, admiring his work. Eliot looked around the island with the little box his fingers made, but saw nothing notable.

“It's not a spell. I think it's a quality of the island, if that makes sense.” Eliot said finally, shaking the spell off his fingers, but not before subtly changing the parameters of his reveal to sneak a peek at Bingle's chest under his clothes. “Something about this place is making us tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Oh,” And then when Bingle shivered, Eliot realized he had forgotten what he had meant to do, and quickly came over, draping his cloak and his arm around Bingle's shoulders so that they were sharing it. Up close and upright, Eliot was about a head taller than Bingle. Soon, Bingle's shivering subsided.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I would like it if you stayed this way with me for the rest of the day or longer,” Bingle said, and then he ducked his head almost shyly.

“I'd like that too, especially the 'or longer' part. In fact, I'd like you to elaborate what you mean by that, because I think I'm all about what it could mean,” Eliot found himself blurting out the words before he could stop. He doubled over with laughter and was about to step away when Bingle grabbed him and drew him back closer, shivering from a stray breeze that had sneaked past the woolen folds of Eliot's cloak.

“Hey! Stay close, idiot!” Bingle snapped. “I mean, uh, Your Majesty.” He looked horrified.

“Don't call me idiot. But I like it when you call me Majesty. Makes me feel like my dick's huge because it's only above average. It's totally proportional for my height and all but not exactly-” Eliot began laughing so hard that he couldn't continue. It took him a minute to recover. “Goodness, I'm sorry. Bingle. I don't mean to offend you...”

“I don't care what you do or say as long as you keep me warm,” Bingle said and he shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. 

“Oh, I can warm you up...I'm really quite good at that,” and Eliot found himself flirting, hard, before he he could stop himself. And then he had realized he had been flirting pretty heavily this entire time.

“I'm just glad the others aren't here, because I don't want them to think that I'm trying to seduce Your Majesty,” Bingle said, and his eyes were wide-open in horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, “Because where I come from, being under another person's cloak like this means a promise to bed. And while I wouldn't mind honoring that promise because I find the bearing of Your Majesty most attractive, I would not want the others to think that I am doing it to curry your favor. And then there's my own reputation at stake because everyone has heard of Your Majesty's proclivities and your catamites.” Bingle looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and die.

“Catamites!” Eliot was kind of offended, “They are totally boy toys, at best. That's just an ugly word; you take that back.”

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I'm only repeating filthy gossip that I heard on the streets of Brighthaven. But I'm not really sorry because it was very good gossip,” Bingle compromised between letting go of the cloak and covering his mouth, by covering his mouth with a fold of the cloak.

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing,” Eliot began to giggle again. It was half-appalling and all hilarity, to see Bingle flailing with his words, and to hear the truth spilling out of his mouth like he had been hit by an 18-wheeler of sodium pentothal. “Okay, I'm trying to shut up, only I'm not because I want to know exactly what you mean by, 'a promise to bed,' because right now I just realized I've been harboring a secret boner for you since that tournament at the castle.”

“I have no objections, Your Majesty, if you mean that you're interested in me for sex. Indeed, I have thought of offering myself to you before, because it would increase my standing and influence, though I would not have acted on it on my own because I am too proud. Between the fact that you're handsome in that unusual and asymmetrical way that I like in a man or a woman, and that you're powerful in a way that could potentially give me access to swordmasters unknown to me whose secret techniques I could take, you've been on my mind too.”

And then, before Eliot's mouth could get the better of him, Bingle spun around and kissed Eliot, backing him up against a nearby tree as if that would shut them both up.

It was extremely effective.

The swordsman's mouth was surprisingly soft. Eliot could feel his pulse jump as they kissed, and Bingle's swordhilt dug against his thigh like a promise of what was to come. Eliot heard footsteps, distantly, and Bingle merely turned them away from the sound with a swift pivot so that they were well-hidden behind a large tree. He continued to kiss Eliot, a long lingering exploration of mouths that seemed not to care about time or place, only immediacy.

Bingle drew back first, breathing hard, as the footsteps grew closer. Their foreheads touched for a moment, and then suddenly he stepped away, shivering a little before continuing his breathing exercises. A moment later, Eliot heard footsteps crunching through layers of loose dead pine needles.

“King Eliot! Bingle!” It was Benedict, and once Benedict had caught sight of Bingle, he ran over. “Something's wrong and I'm scared! I know I'm not supposed to be on the island, but everyone's on the beach yelling at each other! Please don't be mad at me! I'm afraid of getting in trouble!”

Eliot sighed, and stepped out to where Benedict could see him. “So? I've got better things to do. I mean, thank you for letting me know, Benedict. You did the right thing, and you're not in trouble. I'll be right there. Run along ahead and tell Admiral Lacker I'm coming, and that the men had better have a good explanation for what they're up to.” Eliot said, controlling his words and trying to put as much dignified kingliness into it as he could.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Benedict bowed stiffly, awkwardly. It was like the panic had shocked some of the surliness out of him, and he was mostly just a normal kid with a minor attitude problem. Somehow that made Benedict a lot less annoying. He ran off toward the ship, scattering golden pine needles in his wake. 

“You're the one who drilled that into him, aren't you? Manners.” Eliot went over to Bingle and put his cloak around him again. Bingle shuddered as he slowly warmed up.

“Yes, it's only appropriate to address a king in a suitable manner.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your work. But why do you care so much?” Eliot gave him a little squeeze, chafing Bingle's icy hands between his. Poor Bingle, he wasn't suited for this kind of climate.

“I think he has potential.” Bingle seemed like he wanted to say more, but he managed to choke it back.

“I'd like to know more about you and why you do things the way you do,” Eliot said suddenly, and then he smiled, making a little zipper motion with his fingertips over his own lips. “Never mind that. All right, let's go back to make sure everything is all right.”

*****

Things were settled fairly quickly; it turned out the truth-telling had been plaguing all and sundry, and people had been airing out their true feelings about each other. All the little petty sniping and griping that normally would have smouldered safely under the surface had all come raging out into a minor brushfire that threatened the stability and discipline of the crew. Eliot quickly re-sorted the teams into units based on who wasn't exactly yelling at each other, and had the more sober and unflappable members of the crew tasked with settling down the hot-headed ones. The work was still not done and it wasn't looking like it was going to get done anytime soon, so he called for a break while hurt feelings were soothed and fences were mended.

They had a tense, silent snack break on the beach, eating crisp wild apples and pears that were found in an abandoned orchard by one of the crew members. After that, Eliot ordered them back to work, this time with the addendum that they should speak only when absolutely necessary, and only about work. Deciding that the only danger that the previous visitors of the island warned of was most likely the ugly truth, this time he allowed Benedict to accompany one of the crews to do some mapping. Benedict had brightened up as if Eliot had promised him the moon and set about his work enthusiastically.

As for himself, he wasn't sure if this was stupid or not, but he thought it might be nice to go for another walk with Bingle.

Bingle was silent, troubled. He was still doing his breathing exercises, and this time it seemed to work because he was not cuddling against Eliot for warmth. Eliot caught a glimpse of Bingle unconsciously touching his lips with the tips of his calloused fingers, as if he was still thinking about that kiss. Not that Eliot wasn't, because he was as well. It had actually been a while since he had sex; things had grown complicated after the battle with Martin Chatwin, and the towel boys were for looking, not touching. He knew better than to coerce young, handsome men into his bed when he was High King of Fillory. Despite his reputation as a dilettante, Eliot had certain standards about abusing his powers.

But this was different. Bingle wasn't a dependent, fully under his power. In fact, despite Eliot's magic abilities – and they were remarkable abilities, if he did say so himself – he was pretty sure that if Bingle wanted to, he could kick his ass before Eliot could fire off an effective spell. Not much that magic could do against that. And it was obvious that Bingle didn't need Eliot for anything, not even the castle he won in the tournament. Bingle was his own nation-state that followed its own laws, where he was king, councilors, and subjects rolled up into one walking dramabomb.

“Why did you come back out again? Are you a glutton for punishment?” Bingle suddenly asked, and then shook his head a little, as if saying he didn't mean it. “Your Majesty,” he added awkwardly.

“If we got back on the boat, we'd probably just fuck,” Eliot shrugged. He was starting to get the hang of this truth thing. As long as he kept it simple, less was likely to come rolling out of his mouth. “And while I'm completely amenable to that, I decided I wanted to know you a little better. Aaand...if you must know, I did think that it might be fun to have a frolic in the woods.”

Bingle gave him a little sly grin, and Eliot realized it was the first time he had seen an expression on Bingle's face that wasn't grim or melancholy or some combination of grim and melancholy. Grimancholy.

“What do you want to know, Majesty?”

“I want to make sure that it won't get weird, as we're going to be on this journey for the foreseeable future. We could stop now and agree to pretend like it never happened-”

“You talk too much, Your Majesty.” And this time Bingle dragged him off the path into a little grotto that Eliot didn't notice until they were inside the green leafy hollow. It was protected from the wind, and surrounded by dense pines. Eliot decided he needed to take some initiative to change things up, so he pulled Bingle close for a kiss, running his fingers over Bingle's dark hair. 

A few heated kisses later, Bingle knelt before Eliot, and Eliot was both surprised and completely unsurprised that Bingle had been around the block more than once. Eliot chuckled a little as he drew Bingle back up. “Whoa, whoa there...you're going a little fast for me. Is this because you want to do it or because you just want me to shut up?” And Eliot winced, realizing that it was basically killing the mood. Killing it dead. He had just Quentined this experience all to hell, and he couldn't even really blame it on the stupid island.

“Both?” Bingle looked a little surprised at the question.

“Look...this was kind of a mistake,” Eliot began. 

Immediately, Bingle's shoulders tensed and he stepped back, away from Eliot. “Yes, Majesty.”

Eliot sighed, “No, not like that. I mean, I still want to- Look. Just...let me just think it over, all right? Let's...figure this out later when we're not on this damned island.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Bingle bowed graciously. He helped Eliot out of the little grotto and back onto the path. They walked back in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

They quickly put the island behind them, though it took almost the whole evening and everyone working hard to get the ship re-provisioned. Eliot helped out with what he could, though he kept an eye on Bingle who somehow managed not to make eye contact but once; a brief, curious, and searching look. Very little was said even through dinner, and it was just as well. A few minutes before midnight, the ship cast off and it was another hour before the ship entered water deep enough for the crew to settle down into its usual nighttime routine, a few sailors on deck for the night watch but otherwise all hands to bed.

Eliot stretched out on the bed underneath the thick, slightly damp down comforter, luxuriating in his nakedness. It was the only real taste of luxury on the ship. Though it was narrow, absolutely miniscule compared to Eliot's giant baroque bed in Castle Whitespire, owing to Quentin's height, it had been made longer and just a little wider than all the other beds on the ship. It was probably by far the nicest bed on the ship, and Eliot was not about to complain.

Eliot had cast a simple warming spell in the room to hold back the spreading frost over the windows and the occasional icy gust that sneaked through the doorframe. He had complained when they were in the terrible heat of the tropics, but now that it was cold, he was much happier. It reminded him of freezing cold mornings in Oregon, when he could stand out by himself in the snow in the predawn chill, suffering a little and not caring about anything, just going where no one else with sense wanted to go. The snow-blanketed silence would be profound and still, and he would stay out as long as he could physically handle it, until he was nearly half-dead and numb from the cold.

They were good memories, but Eliot snuggled closer to the comforter, glad for the warmth. Tired, but unable to sleep, he took a deep breath, breathing in the faint cedar scent of the bedding. He wished he had a drink, but space and weight had been a serious concern when they were equipping the ship. At least there was wine for dinner, but it wasn't anything like a fat crystal tumblerful of smoky bourbon with a delicious lump of pure ice. He sighed, regretting being out on the sea, away from all things good and beautiful and civilized.

And then he heard the latch give way, a tiny metal-on-wood sound. Curious, he wondered who it could be, but decided to pretend as if he didn't notice. But he did layer on a light spell under his breath, something that would make it seem as if moonlight flooded the room.

The door opened, and closed again quickly, letting in only the briefest gust of icy ocean wind, and was carefully re-latched. 

“Bingle?” The man was a veritable goldmine of hidden talents. Eliot added breaking and entering to his mental list.

“Your Majesty,” Bingle bowed, courtly despite the sway of the ship, staying near the door. Eliot could hear the rustle of Bingle's clothes as he shivered. 

Eliot smiled as broadly as he could, almost jaw-crackingly. This was going better than he had hoped for. 

“Come on, get in bed; it's cold,” Eliot said. “But...take all that off first,” he waved imperiously. “You can keep the sword on if you want.” Leave it to Bingle to come armed to the bedroom.

Bingle's uniform-like shirt came off quickly and easily. Eliot was surprised that it was fastened by snaps.

“Dwarven make, Your Majesty. I had the buttons changed out some time ago,” Bingle explained, noticing Eliot's look of curiosity. 

“Right. I almost forgot about the dwarves.” When he had gone over to Fillory with Janet and Julia, Julia had been wearing this ratty black button-up plaid shirt that looked like a country-western relic from the grunge era. She had pulled it off during their first day in Castle Whitespire, stripping down to a hole-worn t-shirt in full view of a dwarven ambassador who though scandalized, had insisted on taking the discarded shirt as a souvenir of the day. They must have reverse-engineered the snaps. Eliot imagined that they were probably making a killing selling them.

In any other uniform, there would probably be a crisp white shirt underneath it, but in Bingle's case, it was just bare skin, as if extra layers impeded him.

Bingle unbuckled his sword but left it lying close at hand. He tugged off his boots and pulled down his socks. He barely shivered in the warmed room. Unfastening the rest of his clothes, he stepped out of his pants. Eliot murmured appreciatively; the man was all muscle, lean and wiry, and he also wore no underwear.

“No wonder you get so cold. C'mere.” He folded back the bedding for Bingle, who slipped in, rolling against him as the ship dipped into a wave. Bingle's hands were icy, and Eliot gave a little yip as they wandered over his chest. He caught Bingle's hands between his own, chafing them warm. “How long were you outside?”

“Not long, Your Majesty,” and Eliot knew that for a lie. He would have bet money that Bingle hadn't even gone back to his room once they were onboard, but had been pacing the deck, trying to decide what to do. His hands felt that way; it was taking a long time for Bingle's skin to warm, and even the skin of Bingle's face and body were chilled.

“And how did you get so clean? You smell nice.” Like leather and metal and clean skin. Experimentally, Eliot kissed Bingle's throat, and Bingle's breath caught.

“Just before we set out, I found some clean snow in a hollow and scrubbed down,” Bingle murmured. “I thought Your Majesty would like it better that way.”

“I'm not complaining. But you must have not liked that much.” Bingle's chin was smooth, so smooth that Eliot wondered if he could even grow facial hair. His own was a scruffy mask that he knew was scratching Bingle but Bingle didn't seem to mind. In fact, now that he was warming up, Bingle's hands were exploring a lot, even running over Eliot's rough cheeks.

“I like being clean,” Bingle said simply, “And while I am not fond of it, the cold is not the worst thing I've had to endure.”

“No?” But then Eliot decided he didn't want to know, and instead drew Bingle close for a deep kiss.

Bingle's hard, calloused hands were almost rough against his skin, and the touch gave Eliot a sense of nostalgia for those old fantasies of tough working men with their coarse beards and coarse skin and coarse hands. He half-closed his eyes, nearly purring with pleasure as he ran his hands over Bingle's body, tracing faint lines of old scars and feeling the shift of taut muscles under Bingle's surprisingly smooth skin.

“No. The first time I was in the snow- Well, when I was a boy,” Bingle sighed, before continuing, “I was a slave for a few months in Loria.”

Eliot's breath caught, and it wasn't because of Bingle's hands. “I didn't know there was a slave trade. Wait, weren't you born in Fillory?”

Bingle nodded. “South, near the Copper Mountains, at the borderlands. But the men from the desert raided and we were taken unaware.”

“So...they must have taken you by ship up north.”

“Yes, after a long journey through the mountains. It was a terrible journey. Many died.” Bingle said simply, and his hands stopped, forgetting to move, clasped around Eliot's shoulders. “It was just turning winter in Loria...I don't have good memories of the cold.”

Eliot stroked his fingers through Bingle's close-shorn hair, soft against his palm. “I'm sorry, I didn't know. I'll send an army down to protect those towns, as soon as we get back.”

“You don't have to, Your Majesty. It doesn't happen anymore. That was a long time ago, under the rule of the Very Tallest Tree. Those cruel days are gone,” Bingle said softly.

Eliot kissed Bingle lightly. “How did you escape?”

“I killed my master. He let his guard down one day, when he...well, he let his guard down. And at first they would have killed me too, but I was too fast for them. That's saved my life more than once,” Bingle smiled ruefully. “Though it didn't save me from being a slave. Here, look...I still have the mark.” He took Eliot's hand and pressed Eliot's fingertips along the base of his left collarbone. What Eliot had mistakened earlier for a swordfighting scar was actually a ridge of swooping letters in a foreign language, the thin jagged scar white and faded with time.

“What happened after that?” Eliot asked.

“Eventually they caught me. You can't hide in the snow very long unless you're prepared to die. I expected death then.” Bingle grew very still. “Instead, they trained me to fight. The Lorians value strength of arms,” Bingle explained. “They'll take anyone willing to swear allegiance to their gods, and I didn't want to die. Once I was good enough, I killed my keepers and left Loria. It didn't take very long.”

Silently, Eliot stroked his hands along Bingle's back. Was that a scar from a fight, or from a whip? He didn't want to ask. 

“Now you know more about me than almost everyone. Well, everyone alive,” Bingle corrected himself. “Do you still want to do this? With a man who is a murderer many times over.” 

“Yes, because that wasn't the point of finding out more about you,” Eliot kissed him. Though he knew that whole murder thing was technically bad, it also kind of made him hard. He wondered what Bingle looked like younger and all tied up, and was briefly embarrassed at himself at both the unworthiness of the thought and how much it turned him on. He stroked his erection along Bingle's thigh, letting the motion of the ship do half the work for him, and was rewarded when he felt Bingle's cock harden against him.

“Bingle...Bing. What...were you expecting when you came here? Why...did you come here at all?” Eliot whispered against Bingle's ear.

“What do you think, Majesty? I don't renege on a promise to bed or a fight. I expected to bed you earlier today, but you've kept me waiting.” Bingle's hand found his dick and with a few expert squeezes, brought it to the edge of ridiculously hard.

“Jesus Christ..” Eliot gasped. “If this is your idea of fighting, I'm all for it.”

Bingle made a little sound, and it took Eliot a second to realize that it was a chuckle. “Tell me, Your Majesty, what would you like me to do?”

“Oh, I think I'd like to have some fun...” Eliot ran his hands over Bingle's body, cupping that firm muscular ass and giving it a squeeze. “What if I said I'd like to well, I don't know what's a good word for it in Fillorian...you'll have to help me out.” Eliot teased.

“Did you want to fuck me?” Bingle asked politely.

Eliot laughed. “It's like you took the words right out of my mouth. But...are you into that? You don't have to do that just because I'm High King. I mean, there's not exactly any royal etiquette for this...”

“Your Majesty should know that I am very flexible in all matters,” Bingle said simply. And as if to prove his point, Bingle tangled their legs together and with an expert twist of his body, flipped Eliot over on top of him, all without letting go of Eliot's dick. 

“I...see. Well, let me get some stuff then...”

“You mean, this?” Bingle had already intuited it, reaching down with his free hand to retrieve the flask from the shelf underneath the bed. Eliot wondered how long Bingle had known that was there, and if he had been keeping an eye out for it even from the beginning.

“Yes, that's it.” Eliot had never stopped being amused that there was actually a bespoke royal lube that was made for him, a concoction of fabulously expensive oils and herbs that a royal potions master (Eliot secretly called her the Lubesmith) carefully distilled and tinctured for him. 

Bingle uncorked it, and slicked Eliot's cock, squeezing his erection with a slippery-calloused grip that had Eliot's hips arching up in his hand. Then Bingle prepared himself, in an act that seemed to make all the blood in Eliot's body concentrate entirely in his dick, seeing those usually disinterested eyelids flutter with pleasure.

Finally, after what seemed like almost too long of a wait, Bingle wrapped a leg firmly around Eliot's waist, and it was like a band of iron muscle around Eliot. 

“Bing...” Eliot sighed, and adjusting his grip on Bingle's hips, nudged his cock along the curve of Bingle's ass before easing himself in.

Bingle was hot inside, hot and tight in just the right way and Eliot gritted his teeth as he began to thrust, carefully at first, but then more roughly as Bingle coaxed him on. Bingle shifted easily with him, with the motion of the ship, moving them all together in harmony, and partway through Eliot realized that Bingle was shifting them into positions where Eliot could have nearly effortless leverage, so he could drive in deeper and harder with ease.

And then, in a move Eliot couldn't even quite reconstruct when he looked back on it later, much less understand how it happened as it happened, Bingle used the momentum of the ship's rolling motion to flip them over, in one smooth motion so that Bingle was on top. The bedding slid away, but it didn't matter as by then they were both drenched in sweat. Eliot realized that Bingle's eyes were narrowed but focused on him, focusing on his expressions, changing the sway and snap of his hips based on Eliot's expressions. Later, when Eliot thought about it, it reminded him of the first time he had seen Bingle in the tournament, reacting to his opponent's moves with perfect synchronicity.

Eliot came first, and it was probably the best orgasm he had had since he came to Fillory, possibly the best he'd had in a few years. He gasped as Bingle slowed down and moved gently against him, feeling his cock pulse inside Bingle. Bingle leaned over him and kissed him, pausing for a moment before letting Eliot's softening cock slide out of him, already cleaning them up with a discarded handkerchief.

“Wait, Bing...come here.” Eliot drew Bingle against his shoulder, feeling Bingle's erection press against his thigh. “Let me take care of that for you...”

“As Your Majesty pleases,” Bingle murmured. Eliot shifted him into position and was rewarded by the sharp sound of Bingle's gasp as he took Bingle's cock into his mouth. He took Bingle in deep, expertly, and sucked him off, feeling Bingle's dick hard against the soft palate of his mouth and slicking past the tight press of his lips. Bingle's fingers tangled in Eliot's wavy hair, pulling him closer, and then he shot into Eliot's mouth with a deep groan. Eliot swallowed, licking his lips.

“Your Majesty...” Bingle sighed, flopping over onto his back, eyes closed, exhausted.

“Now, now, Bing. You've earned it. Call me Eliot. At least here.”

“I thought you liked 'Your Majesty,' Bingle murmured.

“Why yes, I do. I like it quite a bit. But...you're allowed to call me Eliot once in a while.”

“Of course.” Bingle smiled at him, a sleepy soft smile while Eliot dragged the covers over them. Even though they had been sweating, it dried soon in the cool air and he felt the immediacy of the cold night surrounding them.

“Mmm,” Bingle kissed Eliot lightly, a touch of gentle lips against the corner of Eliot's mouth. ”Thank you, Eliot.”

“I'm glad you came,” Eliot said, yawning. “Next time, Bing, I want you to do me, okay?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bingle smiled, and then the rocking movement of the ship took over and Eliot was asleep.

*****

Eliot woke up late. Of course, Bingle was already gone. He expected as much. Given the close quarters on the ship where everyone knew just about everyone else's business, he was glad for some discretion. 

After he had washed up and dressed, he made his way onto the deck. It was a brisk morning, but not nearly as cold as the day before. The sky was clear, a brilliant pure blue. Whitecaps danced along the sea, and the _Muntjac_ sprang briskly along the waves. 

The cook came by and brought him some breakfast, freshly caught fish fillets tucked in the last of the tropical breadfruit like a pale, lumpy Fillorian taco. At that moment he decided that he was going to have to institute some kind of formal breakfast setup; it was incredibly depressing not eating at a table with silverware.

Bingle was already out, going through his morning practice on the forecastle, doing some exercises with his hands and fingers that Eliot liked to think of as the BinglePopper Etudes, exercises that after last night's fun gave him some rather stirring ideas about what to try next. But unusually, Benedict was with him, swiping at his too-long black hair with a free hand while holding out the practice sword with a trembling arm.

“Hey, that's new,” Eliot flicked the crumbs from his fingers, wiping his hands and the corners of his mouth with a delicately embroidered handkerchief. “Training, Benedict?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, Your Majesty.” Benedict was already sweating from the strain.

“Straighten your elbow,” Bingle snapped, and Benedict immediately corrected his form. But less than half a minute later, he stopped, letting the sword down.

Benedict came over, shaking his arms out, rubbing at his biceps. “I just started today, so I'm not very good yet, Your Majesty,” he said apologetically. Eliot blinked; it was as if Benedict was trying to make sincere effort at being polite and non-resentful. Eliot wondered what could have affected this change and wondered if it had something to do with Bingle; perhaps a precondition for the sword lessons, getting over whatever weird resentments Benedict had been secretly harboring against Eliot.

“I didn't know that Bingle gave lessons.”

“We had a talk last night.” Benedict blushed, staring at his feet, at the sword; basically anywhere that wasn't Eliot. “On the island. I guess...I always wanted to learn, and he doesn't mind teaching, because as he put it most people quit way before they can hold the sword for half an hour with both arms. But I'm not going to quit.”

“Good, I'm glad. I hope it works out.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Benedict went back to the practice sword, picking it up with a look of determination in his eyes. He moved over to an unoccupied corner and began to practice again.

“Your Majesty,” Bingle untangled his fingers neatly and picked up one of his swords. He met Eliot's eyes from across the deck and smiled faintly. “I trust that you slept well.”

“Yes, I did. Extremely well.”

They exchanged a little secret smile between themselves, like two confederates of the same conspiracy.

Eliot looked out over the edge of the forecastle deck, down at the swelling ocean and the great spouts of sheeting water that splashed up where the ship cut through the waves. The water was dark, full of mystery. A dolphin rode the bow wave for a few seconds, and Eliot could have sworn that it had winked at him. For the first time on this journey, Eliot decided that maybe he had recaptured that original excitement he had for Fillory, from that time he first set foot in it, like rekindling the flame of an old love who had been long taken for granted. And for the first time since he had stepped onto this ship, he started feeling more like himself

“Truth is, Bingle...” Eliot kept his eyes on the horizon. “I wanted to do this quest but I didn't really want to pay for it. You know, all the mess and trouble of doing it. After all, I absolutely despise the general nastiness of camping, much less sailing indefinitely to who knows where. The great outdoors are a perverse pleasure for a certain kind of masochist, and I don't count myself among their rank..”

“Your Majesty?”

“And hell, while we're at it, the truth is that I almost asked you to stay back in Fillory. You and Benedict both. But Quentin wanted the two of you, and...well, I'm abiding by his wishes.”

“Your Majesty has been more than kind to us. Truly we had all expected to be turned off when we returned. Perhaps punished or imprisoned.”

“Really? You guys really thought that?”

“Truly. Everyone thought that, even the Admiral. After all, we lost King Quentin and Queen Julia.”

Eliot waved dismissively, though it did explain why the crew seemed to stumble over themselves trying to keep him pleased. “For the record, it's not your fault or Benedict's or anyone else's, for that matter. They lost themselves. You'd fully understand if you knew Quentin like I do. Anyway, what happened yesterday changed how I felt about all this.” Eliot shrugged. “The island that is, not just because you and I...”

“I understand.” 

“I think this journey's going to go well. I have a good feeling about it.” Eliot smiled at Bingle, who gave him a fleeting smile in return before stepping away, facing the other side of the ship.

Bingle unsheathed the sword and swung it in a sweeping parabolic arc before him. The silver line of the sword glittered in the sunlight, and Eliot settled back to watch.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by Greekhoop, who wanted me to include a particular kind of scene with Eliot and Bingle in The Magician's Map, but I couldn't make it fit. I've been thinking of putting together a little series of short stories around the _Muntjac_ 's Voyage in The Magician King.
> 
> This is an exploration of changing out one variable, Eliot for Quentin, and the effect it has on everyone involved. It seems to me that now that Eliot is in Fillory and coming into his own, he has an improving effect on others, and in return, they improve him. Thus in the books, the huge transformation Quentin sees after a year, where Benedict an Bingle are both happier...I'm arguing that the change came about through Eliot and may not have happened on its own without him.
> 
> I imagine Quentin smells a little bit like wood now. Like a pleasant cedar scent.
> 
> 9/28: I put this together as a series recently with the Isle of Keys, but it's more like a set of short stories that roughly tie together, without strict continuity. 
> 
> 10/10 Theoretically, I think they can be read in any order, though there is some internal continuity to tie the stories together.


End file.
